What's great about our apartment’s location is that as soon as you step out the main entrance of the building you're immediately in the midst of all the action here in Talavera de la Reina. Across the road are the park, a playground, a pond, a bullring, and a Simago supermarket. There are bars, restaurants and shops to the right and to the left, and everywhere you look you see people. Calle del Prado is indeed a busy thoroughfare.
The odour of sweat, black tobacco, garlic and stale cheese hits your nostrils, stifling you. It's a relief when children drenched in cheap floral cologne skip by on their way to school. Their black hair is shiny, plastered neatly down on their heads. The fragrance is refreshing, a reassuring confirmation that something good is always nearby.
The blind man is standing in his usual spot, hoping to sell lottery tickets, and the gypsy woman has already taken up her position in front of Moro, the furniture store. The quick movements of her outstretched hand as she begs for pesetas remind me of a conductor waving his baton at the string section in an orchestra playing allegro.
At the kerb a woman is crouched over her little girl whom she's holding in the least ladylike of positions. Urine splashes onto the side of the road and I can well imagine the relief beyond belief the girl is feeling as she empties her bladder. People walk by, oblivious, and don't even glance over, perhaps too used to scenes like this. A scrawny large stray dog saunters up and sniffs the urine, but even he walks away, head down as if completely disinterested.
The woman is obviously in a hurry as she mutters to her daughter, "Hurry up. Come on. Hurry up! How can a tiny girl like you produce so much?!"
I try not to be surprised and shocked at the scenes all around me and focus instead on crossing the busy road into the Prado without getting run over. I buy my usual coffee at the bar near the pond decorated in Talaveran ceramic which is gleaming magnificently in the morning sun. The town of Talavera de la Reina is waking up, but the park is still quiet, enjoying the beginning of a new day before the crowds disrupt the calm.
Those old men with berets and walking sticks who sit on the same benches every day haven't arrived yet. I look for them, anticipating their appearance. It's like waiting on an opera or a musical to begin, that magical time when the orchestra is tuning up, preparing for its performance. The old men usually arrive slowly in twos or threes, their voices ringing out in the fresh, dry air as they discuss the recent Golpe de Estado and the wonders of King Juan Carlos who saved the day. This aborted Golpe has been food for thought here in Talavera for the past several weeks. There are those who yearn for the security that Franco provided, and then there are those who are afraid of change, of what the future might bring, of what people could think.
“And so what if the King is a playboy?!” The bartender shrugs his shoulders at me. “He’s proven himself a good leader, a man in command.” He pokes at his crotch, then wipes his nose.
I sip on the tiny cup of black coffee, and enjoy the rich thick flavour.
A skinny gypsy girl is crouched down, drawing pictures in the dirt with a long twig. It’s a shame that she’s all alone, but the best time for her to find playmates would be late afternoon when the children come to the park to play after school, giant pastries grasped in their tiny hands. A puddle forms in the dried up earth and trickles over next to the bushes. just beyond the public toilet. Maybe she always does the toilet in the open air. Or, maybe the public toilet is dirty? I don't think I want to find out.
She stands up, sweeps her long dark hair down over her back, then takes an old piece of bocadillo from a trash can, crumbles it and tosses the pieces onto the ground. Pigeons appear from nowhere to gobble up this unexpected breakfast. She smiles and giggles at the pigeons parading around heads bobbing up and down, grasping the crumbs of bread.
A group of youths appears, glancing shiftily at one another as if conspiring to get into some form of mischief. They throw stones at the pigeons and congratulate each other every time they almost hit one.
“Great!”
“Go for it!”
“Make a good dinner tonight!”
The gypsy girl looks as if she’s about to yell at the troublemakers as she places her hands on her hips. Fortunately, the pigeons fly quickly away, wings fluttering loudly above the trees; like violins playing Vivaldi’s Spring, The Four Seasons.
The bartender wipes the counter, turns up the music on the radio and wipes the counter again. Next, he dries his hands on his shirt, then grasps his crotch and walks outside over to a tree where he stands, legs apart, his back to me. I'm so glad he has the decency to turn away from me as he relieves himself of his morning coffee and brandy. He's a real gentleman is the bartender, something I appreciate. Truly, I absolutely without any doubt appreciate his manners, so rare are they to encounter these days. What a shame more men aren’t like him! Yet, even so, I can't help but whistle loudly. Want to know why?
I know he'll be dying to turn round to see who is whistling. You see, it's an old trick I’ve learned to play. It never fails. Every time, well, almost every time, I see a man urinating outside I whistle. He gets startled and turns round to see who is there. Guess what happens to his hand? Ha ha ha. It gets all wet!
Thank you for reading my post. The image is of an old post card I purchased in Talavera when I was living there.